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There she is.
The girl I have known far longer than I 'know' her. Yet, not once in the time before, did I ever imagine I would have held her to such esteem. If you ask me of her, I would refer to her as the piece I was missing in my little life. My stomach no longer craves companies of strangers, as that is what she has labeled them in my eyes. She makes anyone who I believed to ever have been friends with feel miniature, so small and light. The pit they left in my chest feels almost none existent since her radiance fills everything else.
To think about a year ago around this time I would wake up to the thought of having no one, I never believed I would look forward to the nineteenth of September, so glad I made it to twenty one. So glad to be able to celebrate it with the perfect stranger.
She is my perfect Stranger.
In the beginning I found her to be an oddball. Her company never seemed to match her, I don't mean disrespect to her. But when I see her, I see a woman of class. A woman who eludes knowledge. Looking back I think that was why I felt so apart from her. Her sentiment was far mature than mine. My conception of her now however, has taken a fatal turn. To think I never thought of knowing her before baffles me.
I have seen glimpses of the change she had in her life in vague films. Short, painful and full of childlike cries. My heart grieves for her hurt and screams to the ones that inflect it.
She is beautiful. So absolutely beautiful. It shows even more when she doesn't know it. She is aggravating. Her outward-ness, her ability to speak so many more volumes than I ever could with much less words makes my life; that I believed to be big; feel so small. She is a universe in a world so miniscule it makes it feel it might as well pop from all the hustle and chaos she brings with her.
She speaks of her father with high regard, a man who could simply walk into a room and light it up, she speaks with awe and a unwavering confidence to be as he is once she is old enough. If only she knew she is just like him.
She speaks of her brother, a man she deems to be a genius, yet she fails to see she's the one who who he sits on par with.
She is the sun, the rain, the clouds, the moon, the stars. She is a gift, a gift of burning ambition, a gift of hope, a gift of humanity, a gift of growth, a gift so eternal I wonder if she were to ever walk out of my world, her impression on me would be enough to push me forward. I call her my friend, she is so much more. 'Friendship' feels to vague of a term to tag what I feel towards this firework. When I speak of her my throat is dry and my heart beats faster, the excitement of finally having someone to talk about with out the need to be romantically falling for them is foreign. If I have ever spoken of a person I spoke with a fantasy of intimacy, but my life sentence to her is more than just 'Death-do-us-part'. With her, it is my soul for hers. My breath to hers, my world to hers.
She is a meadow. A combined fairyland of peonies and jessamine. Jewels bring shame to her, they falter and dull in her presence. You, who shone so bright it made me want to scavenge the world simply to find new reasons for us to become more adventuress. Maybe time would even abide in aw.
Sometimes I think to myself, if I were to have known you sooner, how would we fare in each others lives? Would you have been just like me or would I have been more like you? Would I have seen the world though that young shaken girls eyes and would you have seen the dilemma of mine? Would we run away farther from each other or become more joined to the hip?
I look over my shoulder and there she is, with a cup of coffee; two shots of espresso, a book in hand; Fyodor Dostoevsky, with the purple dairy and a silly pen she was gifted for her birthday, right there in front of the big glass café window. I find myself bewildered. Across the glass is a footpath, cars and a busy road and yet my view feels surreal. So absolutely enchanting, I wish- If I could- to paint her. To paint her in the ethereality of all of her. With her yellow-brown cat-like eyes, her chocolate brown hair and her neat, filed nails. Her ability to walk with grace regardless of her garment.
If I were to talk of a woman of stature other than the one that birthed me, I would speak of her.
It is puzzling, frightening, ethereal.
I am glad to have met her when I met her.
I'm glad to have met you as you are.
I'm glad to the future you and I are bound to share.
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